Misery
by Valkyrie228
Summary: NTSS. “And so the sweet, beautiful maiden finds it in her golden heart to love the bitter, vicious beast. Forgive me, Miss Tonks, but I fail to see the humor of this story.”
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Consider this disclaimed for now on. **

So I haven't updated anything in a very, very long time. Actually I am thinking about discontinuing _Living Dreams_ because I started that so long ago that I don't think I can recreate the atmosphere I worked so hard to make. I have changed a lot, and I don't particularly think I want to return to the way I wrote before. But don't lose hope! I might yet return to it.

Now, onto this story -  
**Background: **this is a Snape X Tonks story! I like to write pairings that I know will never happen. And I also am well aware that Tonks is completely OOC through, like, the entire story, which I promise will be finished; YAY! I might go back and edit things, eventually, to make everything smoother. After all, this has never been read by anyone else but me. So, whoever is lucky enough to click on it first will be The First Person To Have Ever Read This Story. So good luck; mabe there will be a prize! Oh, and I won't update unless I am satisfied with the amount of reviews I get, so if you like it or hate it, or maybe if you're just ambiguous, just let me know.

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The scent of sweat and smoke still clung in her nostrils. Absent-mindedly she rubbed her hand against her numb nose in a half-hearted attempt to remove the putrid scent. She felt ill; she felt like something she really didn't know. Misery seemed to have sunk into her skin just like the man on her right's second beer. She could still hear the music vibrating between her ears and feel the hot bodies of strangers press against her as they danced. The bitter tang of loneliness lingered even though she had escaped outside to the streets of London with blindingly pink hair and a pout that would rival the most petulant of two-year-old's. She was not accustomed to this ache beneath her ribs, and she did not like it.

The crunch of her feet on the slick pavement provided a decent distraction, she decided. All she had to do was count how many steps to the next streetlight; how many until she tripped and skinned her palms again. The hollow glow of the nearest streetlamp seemed so far away. It was an island, no an oasis, in the middle of the blackest desert and all she had to drink before leaving for this particular voyage was something, well anything really, with alcohol and something sweet she couldn't quite remember. The murky memories swam close to the surface, but just far enough away that she couldn't reach them. It didn't really matter anyway. She thought she was probably better off without them. She had never been this bitter while drunk before. She had never been this antisocial while drunk before, and she had never been so desperate for one person before, especially not while drunk.

Fitfully, she stumbled into the wane glow of the streetlamp as her ankle turned and sent her grasping for the cold metal pole. Folding stingingly cold hands close to her ribs, she caught herself breathing deep in the freezing night air. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end and she seemed to fold in on herself. She remembered the throb of the music, the almost orgasmic energy pulsing through the writhing and gyrating crowd. Hands and hair were everywhere. The flashing lights and the instability of the room drew her deeper and deeper into the vortex of sounds and smells and tastes. Here where the walls danced with the people and the floor trembled with sound and touch she was safe. She was numb with the influx of color and independence.

She buried one hand in her short spikes. Tugging on the vibrant locks she choked back a sob. She didn't need him, she thought as she pressed her palm against her forehead. She didn't need anything but the suffocating masses of people dancing to an indistinguishable tune. She had always been tone deaf; one song was just as good as any other if the volume was loud enough. Men had always been the same, so why was this one different? Suddenly, she hated the stench of herself. She was reeking in the cold and she imagined she could see the horrific scent radiating from her body in a miasmic vapor. No, she realized, that milky cloud was just body heat and old sweat.

A laugh erupted from her throat then. The lone man crossing on the other side of the street glared at her as she clutched her aching sides. Loud laughs burbled from somewhere deep inside as she snickered and giggled against a cold streetlight on a London night. If only he could see her now. He would probably sneer. She doubted he would offer to help; that wasn't his way. But she thought she had been making progress with him. He no longer regarded her company as juvenile attention-seeking tactics. Once he had handed her a glass of red wine; true, he hadn't looked up from his book, but he knew it was her.

And she realized something else in the darkness. Something other than she was tired of pink hair and maybe some other color would be more fun. Misery was something everyone shared while dancing to the music louder than a banshee's scream. It was a tangible force just as real as the throbbing of the music in her skull. Back there in the sparkling maelstrom of neon and glitter everyone was just as lonesome as she was. The dried alcohol on her skirt made her colder than she thought she should be. That was the reason, after all, that she was standing still underneath a lone streetlight with her arms wrapped around herself. It had nothing to do with the sullen bitterness of his heartlessness. It had nothing to do with the fact that she should be moving toward home; just a dark flat and a cold bed. Not that he would have brightened the place up. She couldn't stop herself from snorting. She was never very good at lying to herself and the alcohol certainly didn't help.

Finally, she raised a boot clad foot and set it down outside her little sphere of light. With a sigh, she stalked into the night considering stopping at Grimmauld for a quick check to see if he happened to be there. It was stupid. She was drunk. It was the perfect solution to her night of misery.

The air around the old house seemed musty like air trapped in a dusty attic for far too long without disturbance. She imagined the house was very much like an old attic, dust, ghosts, and all. Giggling idiotically at her own thoughts, she rested her head against the firm wood of the door. It was so different than the undulating walls bending to the will of the music hammering against them. She closed her eyes briefly in the hope that the house would stop swaying as though it were waltzing. That wasn't the kind of dancing she had been thinking about. She liked something a bit more boisterous. She should have kept that thought to herself, she decided as her door seemed to decide to remove itself from her face.

Strong arms caught her as she plunged into the soft flesh of someone's abdomen.

"Oh, Tonks, now what?" asked the sleepily surprised voice of Remus Lupin.

"Remus?" she asked as she peeled her cheek from his shirt. "Y'alone?" she slurred as she peered into the murk of the old Black house.

"Tonks, what are you doing here? It's almost three in the morning. Have you even been home yet?" She was getting tired of his questioning. Shaking an already spinning head and pressing her eyes shut, she pushed past Remus with a strength she couldn't remember having.

Stumbling to an embarrassing halt beside the moth-eaten couch, she felt tears prick in the corner of her eyes. She knew better than to expect him to be here. He was never here. Not unless he couldn't help it. Sinking unceremoniously into the overstuffed seats, she cradled her head on the arm of the couch. Remus sank into the chair opposite her with a boneless grace she couldn't find in herself to envy. She had entered her numb phase. This was the stage right before sleep overcame her and she woke up with a throbbing hang over. She couldn't remember this stage, but either way, it made speaking to Remus much easier.

He ran a thin, scarred hand through his graying hair. A sigh shook his bony body and he leaned forward slightly until his elbows rested on his flannel covered knees. "What are you doing, Tonks?" Another sigh shook him and he looked into the corner above her head. "Sleep here tonight; I doubt I could move you anyway right now, but we have to talk tomorrow. Remember that," he stood up from his seat almost as though he had aged considerably since he first sat down. If she had been cognizant enough at the time, she would have remembered how much she hated that. She hated the way he was always so miserably old when he still had the chance to be young. As it was, she was far too lost in her stupor to even notice him hesitate near her head and turn to cover her with a musty blanket.


	2. Chapter 2

Umm, I don't really have much to say this time other than that I lied in the last chapter. Usually I would have waited longer, but I just got so excited, I decided to just go ahead and post this. But this time I am aiming for reviews because I know perfectly well that I _can_ write. I just want to get over the insecurity that other people will not agree with me on that point.

All right, I'm going to apologize again ahead of time. I am really sorry that Tonks is so OOC, but I needed it to fit her into the story. Also, I just really suck at dialogue; Snape in particular is difficult to make speak. He's just an all around tricky guy.

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The next morning was devastatingly bright and she threw one arm over her aching eyes. Her mouth felt as if she had feasted on paper, and her teeth felt slick and slimy like something she would find in one of his jars in his storage cabinet. Her head felt like it was full of musty old air, just like Grimmauld Place. She was contemplating never waking up when a door creaked open excruciatingly loudly. Tired and in pain she opened one eye and leaned slightly to the side to see who the newcomer was. The shadow of black on black was identification enough. It was him.

She lurched to her feet despite the undermining nausea. Her head was pounding but all she could think about was how she didn't want him to see her like this and that there was no escape. She felt disgusting and miserable. It seemed the misery didn't fade with the drunkenness. She had hoped it would.

Clutching her vivid spikes with the hand that had covered her eyes only moments before, she stumbled backward. Her legs came into contact with her couch and her elbow knocked against the walls, but she had to get away from him. She didn't want to see the scorn in his black eyes or the disgust in the curl of his lip. She couldn't fight the color from rising to her cheeks in twin flags of humiliation. Stammering something stupid and useless, she finally managed to escape from the dilapidated room and into the kitchen.

The fake yellow light spilled over her pale and clammy flesh making her look something like a fallen angel that had landed none too gracefully. Her bloodshot eyes roved the kitchen in a desperate attempt for help or escape; at this point she wasn't too sure which she wanted. The smell of now cold tea made her nauseous and she had to press a calloused palm against the bridge of her nose to fight the bile rising in the back of her throat. She staggered toward the stained counters and shuffled toward the door opposite her. Her feet seemed to stick to the tiles and she imagined she looked somewhat reminiscent of a corpse walking from its grave; or maybe back to it. The thought would have made her at least chuckle should the circumstances have been different. She had one sweaty hand on the doorknob of her escape route when she heard with alarming clarity the rustle of his cloak as he emerged from the living room. It seemed he had decided he had allowed her enough of a lead. She threw herself out of the kitchen.

The hall was dark and stale despite the golden morning. The sudden darkness blinded her, but the pain of bouncing off walls as she picked up speed was an adequate indicator of direction. With one hand against her throbbing forehead and the other against the solid door of Black House, she dared to look over her shoulder.

He made a stunning image as he stepped into the dank dampness of the hall while framed with the hollow light from the kitchen. His black robes foamed around him and his black eyes seemed to rip through the thick blanket of dark straight to her without faltering. Dark tendrils of his hair streamed behind him as he strode confidently toward her. He was moving no faster than he ever moved, but the image of him as a dark vulture descending ever closer to her did little to quench her desire to hurl herself into oncoming traffic. The low rumble of his voice caught her off-guard, "And what, Miss Tonks, are you intending to do now?"

That voice sparked a tremble that rippled through her spine and made her eyelids flicker uncertainly. She wanted him to stay away, but she wanted to make him stay and not leave her, not throw her away. She leaned slightly forward. "I-I-I have to go," she stuttered wildly. Something was wrong with her lungs. She couldn't seem to breathe; maybe that was something to have Marge the Mediwitch check on when she went in to work. She almost forgot how dark his eyes were. The thought was suicidal as she fought to peel her gaze from him. "I have to go," she muttered again to the floor. She was in the sunlight again before she realized she had opened the door.

xXx

Severus Snape stood staring at the great door for a moment or two longer than he should have allowed himself. His dark eyes were wide with amusement at her hysterically frantic flight in her characteristic ungainliness. If he was a man accustomed to laughing, he would have allowed himself a chuckle or so now. However, he was not a man who laughed on a whim, and he moved back into the glaring kitchen in a swirl of black robes and pale skin.

As the door swung silently shut behind him, the quiet steps of Remus Lupin echoed down the long and winding stairway. He didn't bother to glance toward the graying man as he reached for a mug with one hand and a chair with the other. Snape followed the stiffly graceful movements by sound alone; it was miserable the way sadness was etched into every turn of Lupin's wrist. It was morbid how the man was so weary and lonely; it was almost possible to smell the misery rising from him. His wretchedness was a dark shroud that clung to the werewolf's flesh and was impossible to remove. The old anecdote of "Misery loves company" rang in his ears, but he ignored it. After all, he had always preferred rotting alone in his dungeons with enough alcohol to soothe the bitter ache and hide the stench of his desolation from his nostrils for at least a little while.

Lupin cleared his throat and turned toward him. With a languid roll of his eyes, he turned to snarl at the irritatingly calm man. The placid, despondent eyes of Lupin's met his and his low voice rippled through the artificial stillness of the kitchen, "So, is she still asleep?" The question sat heavily in the air. One black eyebrow raised in answer to the inquiry. "I mean," he attempted to clarify, "the last time I checked on Tonks, she was still asleep. She was pretty rough last night when she came here. I imagine she was clubbing again, but she's young and she should be able to go out and drink as much as she wants."

"Then why was she here?" the simple question was cutting in its delivery and Lupin rose slowly from his chair with his steaming mug of tea in his hand.

"I think she came looking for me," he sighed jadedly, "I don't really know." He leaned his back against the chipped countertops and continued, "I'm afraid she thinks she's in love with me. I don't know how to convince her otherwise." The sharp bark of laughter surprised him. He jerked his head around from the corner where he had been staring to see mirth shining in Snape's eyes. Snape had laughed; true, his laugh was just as terrifying as one of his wrathful stares, but it was a side he couldn't remember ever seeing to the menacing man.

"You think she is in love with you?" Lupin swore he almost heard delight in his companion's voice.

"She's always around. She follows me everywhere and asks if I'm alright. She begs me to read to her when she finds me in the library. She waits after meetings to talk and drink tea with me. She's always flipping and changing her hair while looking at me; she's always staring at me."

"And, of course, the only possible conclusion to all of this is that she is madly in love with you. Indeed, Lupin, I thought we were past the age conducive to misunderstanding the intentions of the female populace. Has she ever said anything about her undying passion for you?"

"No," he sighed again choosing to ignore the caustic tone to Snape's voice and looked to the door leading to the living room where the woman in question was supposedly still slumbering, "but that's what I intend to talk to her about as soon as she wakes up."

Snape's lips lifted almost brutally at one corner in what passed as his grin as he replied, "Then I am most disheartened to say that she has already left. Perhaps the thought of divulging the secret of her eternal devotion to you caused her to flee."

Lupin leapt upright and stalked through the door. Snape imagined he could see the werewolf's hackles rising. A muttered, "I _told_ her," brushed past his dark clothes as the irate Lupin stormed back into the kitchen. His eyes alighted on the smirking Snape and his annoyance rose to full fledged infuriation. A deep breath or two later he eased back into mild exasperation. Snape remembered with boiling frustration carefully concealed behind his harsh smirk how much he hated Lupin's inability to anger. Could he not feel rage or hate? He theorized there was a hole inside Lupin where anger was intended to rest, to pool, and to fester just like it did in everyone else. This hole would leave the werewolf incapable of feeling anything with any accuracy. He could not feel the burning fire of unadulterated, rampant fury. He hated that Lupin would never fight back, never for himself. He hated that everyone thought it was nobility and selflessness on the werewolf's part. He hated that he hated and was hated in return when Lupin never could nor ever would be.

"The girl never listens," Snape almost crooned as he leaned further into his chair. "I remember when I had her in my potions class. At the time, she was the most bumbling idiot I had ever had the displeasure of teaching." He watched with mild interest as Lupin whirled around to face him and defend the honor of the lady as any respectable man would. He drifted in and out of his thoughts with barely an ear for Lupin's inane ranting. He imagined he could see the walls shivering, breathing with every moment that passed; that they were invisible listeners on this private conversation who were damned to keep every confidence uttered without the ability to understand it. Forever, they would stay silent and unnoticed as babbling idiots like Lupin ranted to protect the virtue and intelligence of defenseless young women. He tore himself from his imaginings to see a flushed Lupin with glittering hazel eyes gradually seeping back into composure. Rising fluidly from his chair, Snape inclined his head slightly to the disgruntled Lupin and said, "And on that note, I shall be leaving. Perhaps you will have better luck with your pursuit of the girl at a later date."

xXx

Exhausted and with an aching, tear stained face, Tonks lifted herself from the sagging couch in front of her TV. Why was he there this morning? Why couldn't he bother to care for her? She was so cold and empty. The ache beneath her ribs seemed to be spreading and she couldn't stop it. His eyes as deep and dark as bottomless abysses seemed to hover behind her closed eyelids. Tired and bedraggled, she swiped at the damp flesh housing that imposing gaze. Her flat was dark. She couldn't find the light as she came in after her run in with Snape. The trail of dried tears down her face stretched and cracked almost painfully as she yawned. The blanket she managed to wrap herself in was no comfort, and she longed strangely for his presence. She was crazy, and she was miserable. Despite everything else, what was the worst was that she knew it; she knew she was miserable and almost longed for that misery too.

She slid from the couch to her knees and crawled on all fours to the bathroom. A shower and something to eat or at least drink would help. Her fingers shrank back from the coolness of the tiles upon first contact. The nondescript grey surface stared balefully up at her as she shed her rumpled clothes and reached for the shower knobs. Stepping under the scalding water was a relief she couldn't imagine. It seemed to burn away the abject disgrace of Snape's untimely appearance. The heat and the steam swirled in a cyclone around her head and she breathed it deep into her skull until she felt nothing but soft numbness. Devoid of thought and pain and with pink and raw skin, she climbed awkwardly from her bathtub.

The soft white towel in her hand cleared away the condensation sliding almost morosely down the glass of her mirror. She looked at her dripping pink hair and sighed. One fat drop of water ran down the glass and split her face in half. She thought she should probably be in thirds instead; one for who she was, who she is, and who she thinks she could be if only she could appease the ache inside her. Closing cynically green eyes, she turned her head sideways and assessed herself critically. She needed something different; the pink did not match her mood. She needed something that mirrored the tempest raging inside her. Twisting her face in concentration the pink faded and electric blue surfaced violently. Newly black eyes evaluated the changes. A thin trail of water followed a drop over her collar bone and over the swell of her breast. Adding a sharpness to her heart-shaped face, she was finally satisfied; for now.

Her clothes felt like they were stuck to her skin as she shuffled out to her tiny mockery of a kitchen. Orange juice and toast was about all she could manage this morning, and she had the suspicion that it would be all that she would be interested in eating. Lately, her appetite seemed to be slipping away through her fingers, but she didn't really care. It saved money on her grocery bill. Carefully setting her glass of juice on the table before taking her toast, she caught her reflection shining back at her from the toaster her dad had given her as a flat-warming gift. She had borrowed Snape's eyes. Her ferociously blue hair fuzzed around her head like an angry cloud of sharp edges and lines. Her face was hard and lean, but she thought it was adequate for the day.

She was too pale, and the dark rings under her eyes made her look ill, she decided as she dumped her glass into the reflective sink. She looked like a little girl hiding from the world. Her lip curled in disgust at the thought, and she realized she was afraid. She was afraid she would always be alone because he would always hate her and she would always love him. She was afraid that the world could be that cruel, and trying to hide from the misery wasn't quite effective enough anymore. With that realization she decided the glass could just sit there alone in the sink.

Fleeing to work, she didn't even bother to worry about what she was fleeing from; she just had to be sure that there would be no tears to make her bottomless eyes shine.

xXx

Frantically, Tonks tried to stuff papers and files from her desk into the tattered briefcase she had borrowed from Remus earlier that week. She was desperate to leave and leave quickly to make the Order meeting on time at least once this month, and she had already gotten warnings from her superiors about the disarray of her desk. In fact, she was ordered to organize before leaving today, and that task was one Tonks was incapable of completing. Silently blessing Remus for his unusually large briefcase, she surreptitiously slid into the fluorescent hallway of the Auror division of the Ministry of Magic. The blankness of the corridor was just as oppressing as she had come to expect it to be, but, for some reason, she found the weight of the mundane even more heavy than it should have been. She quickened her steps and prayed for momentary grace.

Once onto the street and far away from the Ministry, she thanked all the graces for her good luck. Not only had she not been noticed escaping the stifling confines of the blindingly white walls in the Ministry, but she had made it this far without stumbling. An improvement, she decided, since a fine rain was falling and worming its way down the back of her neck and down her spine.

Grimmauld Place seemed so much more wretched today with the thought of an imminent Order meeting and the rain making the old and despondent walls seem slick and decaying. It looked as dismal as she felt as she hauled the heavy briefcase up the crumbling steps and attempted to convince herself to just open the bloody door if only to get out of the infernal rain.

The unmistakable sound of someone Apparating behind her ripped her from her contemplative state. Throwing aside the briefcase and whipping out her wand she spun within the span of one breath to find the owner of the eyes she had copied pointing his wand directly into her face.

"For once, Miss Tonks, you seem to be on time," he drawled as he slid his wand out of sight. Her breath was still caught somewhere in her throat and she couldn't pull her gaze from his. She watched as he raised one acerbic eyebrow as he noted the change in her own eyes.

"It might be beneficial to open the door, Miss Tonks," he quipped as she continued to stare unblinkingly at him. Rolling his eyes, he reached behind her to throw the door open.

"Thank you," she whispered. The color seemed to be returning to her face and she found she could breathe with relative normalcy again. Picking up her discarded briefcase, she brushed past Snape and entered the gloom of Grimmauld again with Snape at her back.


	3. Chapter 3

Alright, so after Chapter 2, things start to go downhill. Dialogue really isn't my cup of tea, so keep that in mind as you read. Oh, and once again, please excuse the grammar and other mistakes I've made because I don't have a Beta, and I don't particularly want to proofread right now. Maybe some other time.

I love reviews. I am a Review-aholic. Its a clinically diagnosed condition which requires many many reviews for every chapter I upload, so you can help by sending my every thought you have while reading this. Alright, so I guess I'll let you read now.

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The sudden end of the monotonous droning was what snapped Tonks from her daze. It was boring being made to sit quietly in one place while someone pontificated about the death, carnage, and destruction caused by Voldemort and his followers. She much preferred debating the pros and cons of grabbing Snape by his black hair and ripping off his robes where he sat. On one hand, she would finally have at least a moment of what she wanted; then again, he would probably hex her to death before she could take her next breath. All in all, she decided as his smirk deepened and one eyebrow leisurely rose, it would be a much cleaner, kinder death than what she was expecting. The pointed stares from across the table and the almost instant roar of chairs scraping across the floor alerted her to the end of the meeting. At last she was free to wander about her merry way. She thought of her dark and empty flat and the heavy briefcase she had to drag home and sort through tonight. Perhaps she could linger here for a bit. Maybe Snape would wander off into the library to peruse the shelves again tonight. It was a thought she decided worth pursuing.

The delicate swish of heavy fabric against her hip as she rose from her chair begged her to turn her head. The soundlessness and the fluidity of his every move demanded she follow him with her gaze at the very least. The weariness artfully hidden away in every line of his body as he retreated from the emptying room caught her attention. She was worried about him. The hesitant shuffle of his feet across the heavy wood floor alerted her suspicions. Something was wrong with him. She didn't know what, but she was willing to bet that no one else did either. Her lips pursed and her forehead crinkled. She started to rise to her feet, but the long shadow of Remus Lupin stretched over her and pinned her where she was.

"I thought you were going to wait and talk to me this morning," his low voice stated. It was an almost emotionless tone; it was devoid of the hurt and the anger and the melancholy she had expected.

"I'm sorry, Remus," she shrugged as she staggered inelegantly to her feet. "I must've forgotten. My head was killing me, and I looked like hell. It was probably better that I left; really, Remus. No one should have to see something as horrible as I was this morning when they wake up," she smiled maladroitly. Her cyclone hair still flared around her head in a neon blue halo while her black as pitch eyes stared intently at the carefully folded collar on Lupin's shirt.

"Really, Tonks, I wanted to talk to you – it was important. I wouldn't have cared what you looked like first thing in the morning, and I could have found you something for your head." The irritation glazing his eyes made him seem much more intent than she would have found him otherwise. Therefore, she lifted herself onto the top of the old table and gestured for him to continue. Something about the way he was running his hand through his hair and the way he had just talked to her made wonder what he was so desperate to say.

Suddenly, Lupin stopped pacing stiffly and stared directly into her eyes as if he was preparing himself for a duel to the death. "We can't go on like this, Tonks. You're one of my closest friends now, but I can't help but think of you as a younger sister I never had. You are young and vibrant; what could you want with an old werewolf like me?" His chest expanded and contracted so quickly the breath rattled as he expelled it. His gold eyes flared in determination. He had decided this was the end of the game; he was sorry, but he just wasn't interested.

Tonks crinkled her brow and cocked her head to the side. She really was confused. Halfway through his restless pacing she had decided to brace herself for the declaration of his feelings for her instead of his refusal to reciprocate her supposed feelings for him. "But, Remus, I just want to be your friend." Her voice sounded strange to her ears. Somewhere in the ancient house of Black she could hear the trilling of someone's laughter. Whoever it was sounded so far away from her. She pulled her attention back to the movements of Remus as though she was drowning in molasses and something rotten caught in her head. The feeling remained as Remus turned a fatherly gaze onto her.

"I know this is difficult, Tonks; and awkward. Actually it's very awkward and slightly degrading, but we have to have this conversation. I don't love you like you love me. I just want to be friends, as clichéd as that is, and I don't want you to be hurt."

Tonks was sure he was going to continue in much the same vein, but she interrupted the steady flow of his voice, "Wait, Remus, I'm not in love with you. I don't know where you got the idea, but believe me; I'm in love with someone else. And I'm not stupid enough to think that he could ever actually love me too. Actually, Remus, I have to go find him; he didn't seem well when I saw him, and I'm worried about him. We can talk more later, right?" She slid from the worn surface of the table without waiting for confirmation. She was tired and Snape wasn't likely to linger here long.

Her footsteps on the threadbare carpet seemed to echo like an avalanche through the narrow corridors. A soft light spilled irregularly from the library and she could smell the intoxicating scent of fire and melting wax. Praying it was him cloistered in the claustrophobic space packed with dusty tomes from the ages when the hate amongst wizarding kind first bloomed, she stepped out of the shadows into the murkiness of the room.

Snape was reclined on one of the moth-eaten couches farthest from the fireplace with his feet resting on one arm of the couch. In one hand he clutched a green glass of something that reeked of alcohol, and his other hand languidly massaged his forehead as he tilted his face toward the ceiling. She almost didn't dare to enter and intrude upon his moment of weakness. Because that is what he would refer to this moment as. Right now he was not terror and hate. He was just a man with too many thoughts and a duty that was ripping him apart. Moments like these were why she loved him. And she did love him, which was why she slid as quietly as she could into the ring of soft candlelight he had created around himself and his small island refuge in the grand library.

"What is it that you want, Miss Tonks?" he queried without stopping the movements of his hand or opening his black eyes.

A strangled sound tinged with hysteria half-way between a whine and a giggle ripped through her teeth as she tried to force the sound from emerging. Resigned to the nonsensical mess she became around him, she said, "I thought you hadn't heard me."

"On the contrary, Miss Tonks, the entire continent would have heard your traipsing through the hallways. I would have to have been both dumb and deaf to have not heard your approach."

"I tried to be quiet," she sighed, disgusted with herself as she sunk into an armchair beside the couch Snape had claimed.

"Indeed, Miss Tonks," he replied resting the palm of his hand across his eyes. She could have sworn he sounded amused. The trick with talking to Severus Snape, she had learned after several attempts, was to listen to the lilt in his voice. While usually impossible to discern a difference in his tone, whenever he meant to say something he said it in the way he spoke instead of the words he used.

"You know," she crooned and leaned slightly forward in her chair, "I think I may just be running out of ideas for my hair. Pink is great and all, but it's just not…," she made a frustrated face and sank back into her chair. She was just trying to lighten the mood, not debate the status of her mental and emotional stability.

"Sometimes," he almost purred as his wrist slowly turned so the ice spun along the edge of his glass, "the most simple, natural way is the best." His wrist kept turning and the clink of the ice against glass was the only sound in the musty room. "But I would not know," he continued, "I am, after all, a man with no face; none at all."

She couldn't help the undignified snort, but she did attempt to hide her face so he wouldn't see the mirth still shining in her eyes when he turned to glance at her. "Really," she was trying so hard to keep from laughing, "are you always this cheerful or is it just me?"

He rolled his eyes and slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. A wince creased his brow, and his dark eyelashes pressed against the pallid curve of his cheek in pain. Worriedly, Tonks leaned forward and pressed her hand against his arm. His head swung around to face her faster than she could blink, and his eyes ripped through her. Rage seethed beneath his every surface. His fury swallowed her, but she dared not look away from his smoldering gaze.

"I do not need your pity," his ice cold voice almost whispered. She imagined she could feel the breath his words traveled on caress her cheek as he barely maintained control on his wrath. To her humiliation, Tonks could feel her eyelashes fluttering against her skin as though they were butterfly wings in a gale. Her breath caught in her throat and she was sure her blood was cold. There was a strange ringing in her ears and her thoughts evaded her. She wished he would stop looking at her.

"I don't pity you," she choked. She imagined the walls were undulating again in time with a song only they could hear. Maybe, she decided, the bitter wailing in her ears was the tune they pulsated with. She wished she could dance with them rather than face the vehemence in his eyes. "But I'm worried about you," she whispered to the ivory column of his throat.

A cruel snort erupted from him then. "And so the sweet, beautiful maiden finds it in her golden heart to love the bitter, vicious beast. Forgive me, Miss Tonks, but I fail to see the humor of this story."

"This isn't a game, Snape!" her eyes snapped back to his before she could think through her actions. Rage didn't quite describe the fury drowning her. She imagined there was a different tune the walls vibrated with now. This was something far more consuming; it was vaguely like a wildfire, and now that she was burning with it, she was willing to pass it on to anyone she could.

"If you had any idea how much I hate you, I think even you would have mercy on me. But then I think if you avoided me, I would die. And I hate that almost as much as I hate you. Your stupid speech about not having a face beneath your mask – maybe you should try having to many bloody faces. Try having every mask you wear be your actual face until you have no idea who you are anymore." She knotted her fingers in her blue, cyclone hair and pulled. Long, red flames grew from her scalp and spilled over her shoulders and between her long, pale fingers. A strange bravery seemed to bubble through her then. The recklessness seemed to be in competition with her wildfire hair and she continued with her speech, "But I love you, dammit. I love you and I wish I could die because then you would never have to know. I thought by now I could either ignore it, or you would know. I guess I was wrong, Snape, because I still ache just as much as I have before, and you look like I just attacked you with a soup spoon."

The flames in her now violet eyes receded and left her far colder than she thought she could be. The weight of her now long hair seemed to be pulling her down so she could not look into his bottomless eyes, but she was thankful for the shadowy haven it created when it fell across her blanched and startled face. She knew he was still staring at her with that disconcerting light in his eyes. She waited and waited for him to say anything, but the surrounding silence was all that answered her. Maybe, she decided, it was enough of an answer.

"I'll just…go," she breathed as she lurched crazily to her feet. He didn't try to stop her.

XxXxXx

Her footsteps slapped on the empty streets and she could barely force herself to breathe. Each sob stuck in her throat and clung to the swollen tissue keeping the breath locked deep inside her. Her head ached with too many tears and her nose dripped with them. She couldn't see where she was, and she wished she could just lie down and cry alone on the cold and damp street that smelled like vomit and soggy cigarettes. The prickling rain still fell and coated her skin like an angry, stinging blanket. She could feel the cold mist sink into her skin and her sobs came harder. Her feet hit the ground in a chaotic pattern of stumbles and leaps as she staggered on into the dark. She wished someone could have told her how painful it was to spill your heart out onto the carpet in front of the coldest, most bitter man in the world. She wished she hadn't been so stupid as to let herself spew forth her feelings to the one man who wouldn't give a damn. She cursed herself and slid under the bus stop awning.

The bench was slightly damp, but it was far drier than the surrounding area. She pressed her clammy forehead against the cool plastic wall and let the sobs shake her body. The ache under her ribs seemed to have spread through her abdomen, and she was sure she would never be warm again. Through blurred eyes, she watched the clear plastic fog from her breath. The patch grew and shrank with every shuddering gasp and shallow pant. One spidery finger traced a nonsensical pattern through the moisture and she watched as fat water drops slid down the wall. She drew her knees to her chest and pressed herself into as small a space as she could. When she could feel the dull thud of her heart reverberate through her thighs, she let her head flop against the wall again. She pressed her eyelids tight and prayed as the last of her tears slid through her lashes that he would just disregard everything; just lose her in the music pounding in her head.


	4. Chapter 4

Alright, so I was threatened most severely to remove the first paragraph or so of my last AN, but I am lazy beyond all reason, so I hope a recall will suffice. I'm posting this earlier than I planned, but hey, as I said before, I am a review-aholic, and you managed to convince me to break my schedualed plan. So here's the next chapter! I just love the beginning of this one; Snape is so horribly confused, but he has no idea that he is. Or at least, he has no idea why he is confused. The poor, poor man.

* * *

Breath rushed through lips twisted into a pained snarl in a torrent of impotent rage and futile shock. Snape tenderly massaged his forehead with one thin, white hand. So the foolish chit really was incapacitated by love. His shock inspired almost hysterical mirth as the thought, I knew she could not be in love with Lupin, spun through his head. He imagined he should have followed her. A dashing, noble man like Lupin would have scurried after her to alleviate her fears, but he knew there was nothing noble or dashing about himself. So, he allowed himself to sink further into the moth-eaten furniture. He watched tiny dust motes sparkle silver and gold in the lamp light through eyes half lidded in pain and surprise. His only tethers to consciousness were the curious blankness to his thoughts and the debilitating pain radiating along his spine to the base of his skull and beneath his eyes to the soles of his feet. The humiliating clamor of ice against glass as his hand shook while reaching to set his finished drink aside caused the fury to well up again. He was weakening, and he knew it. Eventually, this war would claim his life. But he had never feared the thought before, and he still did not. He would die, and he had had plenty of time to prepare himself for the inevitable. However, he realized as he let his body lie limply in the shadowy library, he had never considered what to do when life caught up to him. He knew what to do when death finally stood next to him, but when life offered him a chance to live, he had no idea how to reply. So, he sank deeper into his thoughts as the too soft cushions attempted to swallow him.

He noted off-handedly that the ceiling was littered with interesting water marks. The brown stains branched and swirled in a gracefully chaotic pattern as he swam through thoughts viscous with dismayed apprehension. What was he supposed to do? Should he let her love him for the remainder of his time left? But how long would he have to play the foolish game with her? He had no idea when his inexorable end would come. The simple answer was to destroy her misguided infatuation immediately. He sighed and expected the familiar satisfied feeling of coming to a conclusion, but the empty confusion remained. His eyes slid in and out of focus making the brown patterns on the white ceiling dance and writhe. It would be wise to obviate her feelings for him; the pain that invariably accompanied such an emotion would do neither him nor her any good. Yet, the persisting tingle that suggested he was missing some important component continued to pulsate through him.

Water pooled in the corners of his eyes as he kept his head tilted against the decrepit back of the couch. He realized as a thin tear attempted to slide across his temple that he had not blinked in some time. The sting of dry eyes begged him to close his eyelids, but he found he could not. The comfort of complete relaxation was a numb paradise he was not willing to leave. Here, he could forget about the aches and the pains of his body. Here, all that mattered was the strength of his mind, and that had never disappointed him before. As he slid deeper into the numb paralysis, thoughts of a pink haired girl smiling rabidly from the shadows brushed through his thoughts with all the subtlety she possessed in reality. In a heartbeat he had discarded her again, but she reemerged as the blue haired whirlwind she had been earlier. She had felt rage and sorrow; the feelings were as apparent on her face as they were in her words. When she spoke so softly and shyly, he had felt the irrational need to goad her until she screamed or lashed out at him. The task had proven surprisingly easy. He was prepared for the accompanying scorn that always followed his success, but it never rose. The absence of the feeling jarred him from his stupor with a force that sent him reeling. He felt nothing but vague curiosity when he thought of the raving speech he had incited from her. The tentative curiosity almost tasted of remorse when he thought of the truths and wounds she had spewed forth like bile and blood after his poisoning. He imagined he had wounded her quite severely; through all her tears and flushed skin, her words stank of an old pain festering in sorrow and absolute misery. A thought occurred to him as he stared blankly at the swirling brown stains on the ceiling, and he shuddered with the implications of it. Perhaps they truly were more alike than he cared to know.

* * *

Tonks sluggishly made her way home to her empty flat. Every joint ached and her head throbbed painfully. The nauseating ache threading through her made her feel drunk without the subsequent euphoria. Her stomach churned and her throat worked frantically to keep the bile down. She shivered with every brush of her bitterly wet and cold clothes against her skin. With her nose and eyes streaming and her hair plastered to her scalp, she stomped up the three flights of stairs to her door. She didn't trust herself enough to do anything but walk home, and now her legs and feet punished her for her weakness. The despair that crowned her made her wonder if she really thought she would make it through this war alive. Optimism was seeping through her pores like evaporating sweat; she couldn't find it in herself to hope. Her boots rang on the winding metal staircase, and her thin fingers wrapped around the bitingly cold banister she used to haul herself up to each new step. She hated the dimly lit hallway and whining squeal of the heating unit attempting to warm the building. Her despondency lightened momentarily for her to say her thanks that her flat had its own heating system no matter how small and frail it was.

The dull blankness of her peeling door stood before her, but she couldn't move to find her key. She imagined she would have started sobbing again if she hadn't been so tired, but as it was, she let her forehead slam against the lifeless grey door while her body shook uncontrollably. She was so tired she couldn't make herself think. Her right shoulder was pressed painfully against the door and her other hand sank methodically into her pocket to retrieve her key. The satisfying crunch of the lock opening and her door swinging open was enough to sweep her inside without a thought. She couldn't let herself think. On its own accord, her hand swept out and flicked on the lights. The oppressive gloom shrank into all the small corners of the flat, just biding its time. Her eyes automatically turned away.

She peeled her soaked clothes from her body as she shuffled thoughtlessly through her small flat. She was moving with the vague intention of finding her flannel pajamas, but she didn't have a distinct destination in mind. Every step sounded of one foot smacking against threadbare carpet and the slap of wet cloth as she discarded her clothes without a care. Finally standing in front of the oval mirror suspended over her dresser, she could see the darkness of her wet, flame colored hair stretched toward her waist. She could see the dark circles outlining her violet eyes like twin bruises, and her cheekbones jutted sickeningly from her pale skin. She looked ill and alone. Her lips were a pale pink almost the same shade as her skin. Delicately, she ran her tongue over their chapped surface, but no answering color rose. Her skin was prickled with thousands of tiny goose-bumps, and she was so tired. Tearing her eyes away from her reflection, she pulled on her warmest pajamas and crawled into bed.

* * *

The morning was an answering grey to yesterday's malignant rain. Tonks wished she could stay in bed. Her body begged not to move, and she clung to her pillow. She felt the vestiges of sleep pulling her back into the comforting realms of dream when the screech of owl's claws against glass jolted her from the warmth of her bed. Angrily, she ripped her feet from the sheets and stumbled to her window. The bird's yellow eyes seemed to stare through her as she carefully removed the note and turned it away. She had nothing to offer it.

The parchment was heavy in her hands, and she was hesitant to open it. It was a nondescript color without any address on the outside. It could be from anyone. Except her mother, she admitted. That note still sat on her kitchen table begging her to reply at the very least. She was expecting a Howler any day now for her lack of response. Gingerly, she climbed into bed again and pulled the sheets back up to her chin. Without another delay readily available, she unfolded the parchment she imagined was as heavy as her apprehension.

The handwriting was all familiar sharp lines and cramped angles. Fear and surprise attempted to choke her as she recognized the script. Snape had decided to write to her. She quickly read the note. Then she read it again, more slowly. The third time was just as shocking. Scrawled in his spiky print was the message, "Perhaps, Miss Tonks, you would find the Alocutus potion most useful." His signature was crushed against the bottom of the paper as if it was nothing more than an afterthought.

She felt something akin to white hot rage blooming in her chest. The small parchment didn't stand a chance against being crushed in her fist. Fury spurred her out of bed and down her hall into the kitchen. With disheveled hair and flushed skin, she looked like a demon out of Hell. Her eyes were shining manically and her pajamas were sliding off one thin shoulder as she muttered unintelligibly about bastard potion masters and their damned potions. Shoving bread into the toaster and dumping orange juice into her glass, Tonks continued to rave and glare at every hapless appliance in her small kitchen.

So, the bastard thought she needed a potion to keep her from babbling incoherent words and phrases, did he? Well, she would bloody well show him. The loud pop of the toaster spun her around with her wand at the ready and knees bent in the defensive position. Thoughts were forming rapidly and she was discarding them just as quickly; the problem with Severus Snape was that he was the most cunning, most devious man on the face of the Earth. No plan could be anything less than perfect when dealing with him.

So, Tonks deliberated. She planned through breakfast, and she calculated through her shower. She plotted as she dressed and schemed when she was supposed to be working. She even reckoned through the lecture her superior, Auror Ratchett, gave her when it became apparent that all her files were missing since she attempted to clean by removing the problem. It occurred to her later that her briefcase was still sitting in Grimmauld. And so, she found herself outside the ancient doors once again with the intention of retrieving the errant briefcase when the perfect ploy came to her. Therefore, she all but skipped into the dank recesses of Grimmauld in her search for her missing files with a grin that threatened to split her face in half.


	5. Chapter 5

Right, so I really have nothing to say. Other than excuse the obvious mistakes, of course. I think I might have invented a word at some point in this chapter, but I couldn't find it when I went looking for it to change it to something grammatically correct. So, now I'm on to my usual pitch for reviews. Tell me your ideas, thoughts, anything you possibly feel like telling me. I'm always willing to listen. And while suggestions to help me improve personnally will most likely not change anything for this story as I have finished it! But everything that is suggested I will/am taking to heart for my next story. I even have a beta for it! Now that is a first for me. So enjoy; I hope you like it as much as I do. In fact, I kind of consider this to be the last chapter even though there is another chapter after this that ties everything together and gives it a point of some sort. But this is where Snape realizes that he is perhaps a bit more affected than he would have otherwise thought. Turns out I had plenty to say once I got going.

* * *

With an extreme effort, Tonks managed to uncross her eyes and pull her awareness back to her surroundings. She was tired and a three hour Order meeting with another shift at work afterward was not exactly her idea of paradise. A jaw popping yawn caused tears to well up in her eyes, and the world blurred into a swirl of dark colors that spun into a kaleidoscope of blinding white fog. She batted the tears away with the back of one narrow hand with the intention of restoring her sight to its usual accuracy. After about the tenth swipe at her eyes, she decided that the dark apparition actually was real. Blinking furiously she whipped out her wand and noticed the one dark eyebrow curving elegantly toward his hairline. A small smirk stretched across his pale lips and he leaned slightly forward. The strange light flickering in his black eyes bespoke his good humor and the tilt of his head described his attention. The slow rumble of his voice flooded her head as he spoke, "I trust you are well, Miss Tonks." His slow smirk stretched across his colorless face as he said, "I see you took my advice." He allowed a short pause for her to attempt to derive his meaning. He watched the puzzled and slightly annoyed crease between her eyebrows and the pout weighing down the corner of her lips. "You seem remarkably self-contained today," he drawled as he backed away from her and out the door.

Tonks glared at the crumbling white paint framing the doorframe while she attempted to un-swallow her tongue which she seemed to have inhaled in her indignation. Then humor swamped her as she stood up and followed the example of her knight in a silver mask and walked out the door. Her laughter rang through the moldering hallways of the old Black house as she stepped out into the London night toward the Ministry.

* * *

The next day, Tonks had to admit her brilliant plan was failing miserably. She hadn't even been able to implement Phase One, and she found herself willing to give up. She thought she had never been this tired in her life as she sank into the creaking wooden chair in Grimmauld's ancient kitchen during her lunch break. Only four hours of sleep, she whined to herself as she buried her face in her folded arms. Platinum blonde hair spilled around her elbows as she tried to pretend that she was still on top of the Snape situation. The desolation of the empty kitchen seemed to be seeping into her bones. Her weariness floated around her in a small, ever expanding pool of darkness she imagined herself swimming through whenever she took a step. 

Snape folded himself into the shadows just beyond the doorway into the kitchen as he watched the girl within sigh complacently. She was too tall, too loud, and above all else, she was too strong. Despite the fragile hands and delicate cheekbones, she was too strong to be broken. But she was just strong enough to break him. Peculiarly, he found himself terrified of her. He was afraid to trust her; afraid to let her know anything about him, but he couldn't quite shake her from him. He had made the mistake long ago of unconsciously accepting her. And that, despite everything, was what frightened him the most.

The darkness thriving within him had shifted. The blankness feeding from him had altered to accommodate the only person in the world who feared him in the way that she did. He watched as her breathing varied into deep sighs and gentle murmurings she whispered to herself. One neon green fingernail emerged from beneath a short, blonde curl as her head slid down her arm. He acknowledged to himself that only a man cursed from birth could have the misfortunes that he had endured and was destined to yet endure. With another private concession, he admitted that she was yet another of his many trials. Something reminiscent of a smile graced his spectral face as he admitted she was most likely going to be one of his most difficult complications yet.

The curly haired witch snorted happily in her sleep, and he found himself strangely loath to wake her. Instead, he slid into the room with no more sound than if he had stepped only on the shadows themselves. There was a dampness in the air he attributed to the recent rains and the smell of mildew permeated the small cupboard space as he searched for a kettle. The soft ring of metal on metal did not rouse the sleeper from her slumber, and he carefully continued on. The mundane task of making tea and leaving it charmed warm near her arm, but safely out of reach, left him more disconcerted than he thought he should be. He focused adamantly on ignoring the deep sighs she expelled between slightly parted lips with a sparkle of saliva balancing carefully at the very corner of her mouth. Resolutely, he stepped from the room and vanished as though he had never entered. The softly steaming mug of tea was the only reminder of his venture from the shadows.

* * *

It was the second week of her own private vendetta against Snape, and she had yet to do a single thing she had planned. The third morning, she had found him curled in his armchair in front of the fire of the library where he had apparently spent the night. Deep purple shadows traced the cadaverous curves of his face like dark bruises, and she found she could not find it in herself to be truly angry at him. He could not help himself, just like she could not help but to love him. It was a vicious cycle she had once wished she could end; it was a cycle destined to leave her the only one suffering. Now, she was too busy and worried to wish for such frivolous things as freedom from heartache. She was learning to live with misery as a permanent handicap. It was like missing a part of your arm, she had decided one morning while eating her eggs, except it was a piece of something inside you rather than something so noticeable like an arm or a foot. She knew Snape's wounds were far more severe than hers anyway. 

Today, the sunlight was streaming through the tall, watermarked windows of one of the several studies. Tonks always fancied this particular one the conservatory simply because she had always wanted to be in one. The desire must have sprung from the game her father had given her for her ninth birthday. She chuckled to herself as she turned to stare at the fading walls and moth-eaten furniture and thought, It was Madame Peacock in the conservatory with the wrench. Now she just needed someone to play the body of the poor sod that had gotten in her way. Maybe Snape would be willing to play Mr. Green. As she nearly doubled over with silent laughter and an impromptu snort, she doubted she could ever beat him in the game of intrigue and murder.

Someone had drawn back the heavy curtains and dusted. A crystal brandy flask sat stately on an end table, but she highly doubted it was brandy that glittered malignantly inside it. Beside the eerily gleaming bottle rested a neatly folded parchment without an address and a quill with crusted ink spilling onto the table. Her newly silver nails momentarily flared the red of newly spilled blood when they caught the glimmer of the red liquid as she inched the note closer to herself. Her breath caught in her throat as she prayed that she would have solitude for once while she attempted to be sneaky and sly. Her heart somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, she recognized the familiar, angry scrawl of one Severus Snape. "Perhaps," he had written, "I have gone about this entirely wrong."

She caught her lip between her teeth and debated. The cramped knots of his words bespoke an emotion he could not voice, but he was more than capable of recording in words what he could not share with any living person. Her fingers brushed the page as she tempted herself to dare to risk far more than life and limb for the sake of possessing the right of loving this man. As her eyes turned to devour his precise and eternally rushed characters she knew she was the stupidest, most imbecilic woman alive.

He paused momentarily before entering the small room he expected would be flooded with unwelcome light. His head throbbed at his temples in a pulsating rhythm perfectly timed against his heartbeat hammering within his ribs. He could feel his blood surging through his veins almost as if it protested these new aches and pains inflicted upon him. He knew it was not his place to complain; long ago he had given up the foolish fantasy of freedom from servitude and heartache. He had learned to cope without a heart and with his invisible shackles. Dark bruises bloomed across his jutting ribs he kept carefully hidden behind folds of black cloth. All he wanted now was sleep and to hide his stupidly spontaneous note to himself. He could feel the numbness licking against the carefully maintained walls of his mind, and he was thankful for the impending respite. Almost tenderly he slid his fingers around the solid door and pushed until the hinges screamed in displeasure. That was when he heard the tell-tale crash and murmured obscenities that bespoke guilt. He knew the voice just as he knew the hushed phrases spilling between lips most likely some lurid color or other. Wary apprehension bloomed in his aching veins; he knew what she was guilty about. She probably did not know it was he who had entered, but there was little doubt that he had misread the situation he had stepped into. His obsidian eyes fell to the small note he had scrawled to himself. The bottom corner was bent. He had made no mistake.

Slowly, he released the breath he had been holding as he waited for his typical anger to rise, but only a token fury surfaced. Resignedly, he slipped the creased paper into a fold in his cloak. He quickly discarded the imagined image of her flushed face as she read as quickly as possible the words most likely to cause his destruction. The words penned in his own hand, he thought as he sank into the armchair closest to him. The curve of her lip caught between one tooth as she devoured his words rippled through his already overtaxed mind. Clearly, he decided, sleep would not nearly be remedy enough. He sank his head back into the moth-eaten plush of the faded armchair and pretended that he did not feel satisfaction in making her quixotic eyes sparkle the way he knew they would be right now as he slid into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

As far away from the room where Snape hid with his current miseries as possible, Tonks slid along the wall until she was sitting with her arms around her knees and her chin resting on her folded wrists. A smile danced temptingly on her bowed lips. Perhaps Snape was not so far from redemption after all. It seemed his own, private Ice Age was thawing, and he had yet another regret that was plaguing him. Selfishly, she squeezed her knees closer to her chest and forcefully bit into her lips to keep from screeching her excitement. Her monolith was crumbling; he had implied it himself. Soon, he would be just a man haunted by old ghosts who would be willing to hold her hand and try to make her smile. Her breath whined through her teeth as she hugged herself even tighter. He was making her smile now. 


	6. Chapter 6

So, my friends, this is the end. I realize some people were slightly confused about my last AN. Honestly, I can't even remember what I wrote. This took me longer to update than I thought it would because I don't particularly like this chapter. Yes, this is what I have been working up to, but I just don't like it. Anyway, I hope you liked the story. Actually I have another story on the backburner at the moment, so watch for that. It's a completely random pairing, but whatever. Maybe it will be done in a few months or so. Completely depends on how many mental breakdowns I have in between.

* * *

Sunlight stabbed at his eyes as he woke swiftly and silently. After ascertaining his solitude, Snape leisurely allowed his eyes to flicker open. Berating himself for remaining in the Black House all night, he wrapped his robes tightly to himself and slid effortlessly into the shadows despite his aching and protesting body. With a sudden and decisive turn, Snape stalked into the kitchen and was already reaching for a mug when the sleepily cheerful voice of Nymphadora Tonks exclaimed, "I thought you'd left last night!"

No one, he decided, should sound that happy to see him in the morning. With a stilted turn, he managed a particularly scathing glare as he cradled the steaming mug of tea in his hands. Her hair was still the electric purple of the day before, but it was tangled and mussed beyond all reasoning from sleep. Sulfuric eyes stared jovially at him as her cherubic lips angled into what he would describe as an idiotic grin. He suddenly realized she was smiling at him.

Spinning back to the semi-opaque window above the sink, he forced his lungs to start working again. Just as his discomfort receded, his unpredictable rage spilled up from the depths of his abdomen as strong and burning as bile. Furiously, he whirled back to face the gawking girl in a maelstrom of black robes and maniacally glinting eyes. Blotches of red and white marred his face as he somehow managed to both bark and hiss, "You read the bloody note."

Her face noticeably blanched and she stammered slightly before she found her strength again in the face of his onslaught. "If you had ever said anything, I wouldn't've had to resort to that! If you had told me _anything_, you could have saved us both a lot of misery!"

"If you could have learned to let foolish, imbecilic fantasies remain as such without humiliating me, who obviously had no prior involvement in any problem of yours –"

"Oh, just shut up, Snape," she grumbled. "You got yourself into this mess, and you bloody well know it." He was too close. She couldn't remember when she had stood up, much less knocked her toast and tea to the floor. The warm liquid pooled around her toes, and she was close enough to count his eyelashes. A completely irrational part of her noted his eyelashes were remarkably long and thick. Another part of her noted they seemed even longer than she knew them to be as they both lurched forward and tangled themselves in each other. Her fingers were hooked in his hair and the front of his robes; his were snarled in her glaring purple tresses and clutching at her hip. They were slammed together; they were reducing their awareness to mouths and hands and the aching crash of body against body.

Remotely, she noticed she was being lifted from her feet. All but hurled onto the countertop, she pulled herself back to him with a noise somewhere between a squawk and a moan. His hands and lips were everywhere, and she arched her back and slid her feet up the cabinets and around his waist leaving damp footprints in their wake. Her fingers were slipping to the line of multitude of small black buttons concealing his chest. Her pajamas were bunching in his hands pressing against her ribs just below her breasts. With a strangled noise she wasn't sure she had really uttered, she managed to push his robes from his shoulders in a black cascade that billowed to the tepid puddle of tea and toast crumbs.

Her fingers slid through the substantial gap she had opened in the infuriating line of buttons and spread over his skin. A hiss passed through his lips as they were pressed between the hollow of her throat above her collarbone as she traced the depressions between each of his protruding ribs. Her legs drew him closer to her, and she vaguely heard the snapping of her pajamas' buttons as he forced the shirt apart. His hands were cold against her skin, and she shuddered as her yellow eyes rolled back into her head. Then, his hands were gone, and she was left attempting to hold a man who suddenly did not want to be held. "I don't want your sympathy," he spat as he tried to force her legs from his waist. She clutched at his collar, his hair, and even his skin as she fought to hold him to her. Curses filled the heavy air until she managed to relatively immobilize his arms. His eyes continued to spit fire, but she matched him glare for glare, "What the fuck do you think you are doing? You finally unbend, but then you start screaming about sympathy that I don't have for you. What the hell are you doing?" Her eyes flashed and her fingers dug into his flesh. "What the hell do you think I'm doing?" she sighed into the folds of his flapping white shirt.

"I do not want anyone's sympathy, but I very much doubt that I could stand yours," he muttered with a somewhat softer tone. The poison in his eyes was diluting to its usual rancor, and she thought, for a moment, that his lips attempted to twist into a smile. She leaned forward until her forehead lingered almost against his so that their breath mingled in a warm cloud between their slightly parted lips. Slowly, she trailed her thumbs over his thin lips and into his dark as shadow hair. "And I don't want your sympathy either, Snape, no matter how inclined you are to give it," her mouth twisted into a mordant smile she could only have learned from years of exposure to him. She purred, "Unless, of course, it's in the form of you crawling into bed with me." The answering grip of his hands on her shoulders and his mouth against hers was all the reply she needed, and the thrill of victory, she discovered, was almost as sweet as the skin beneath his jaw.

* * *

They had hastily retreated into the relative solitude of his library hideaway. Together, they lay against the faded pattern of one of the library's couches. Snape idly contemplated the brown stains spreading across the once pure white ceiling as he traced tiny circles against her inner thigh. Tonks shifted her arm lazily across his chest and sighed complacently within the dull glow of the single light that surrounded them in a halo of gold. Curled happily in her euphoria, she brushed her lips against his skin and smiled to herself. His skin was warm and damp against her own, and she was sure she had never felt so utterly boneless before. Hopefully, he would not suggest standing up anytime soon, or her elephantine grace would become far more than apparent; but more importantly, she was truly and completely happy right here. 

Happiness was not a feeling she was accustomed to anymore; at least not of this magnitude. For the first time in almost as long as she cared to think about, she was deliriously happy. Snape's breath trailing along her forehead and his hair tickling her cheekbones were the most wonderful feelings she could possibly imagine at the moment. With her ear pressed against his chest, she could hear their heartbeats steadying into the same rhythm she was loath to break. She didn't dare move for the fear of changing anything in this perfect moment of hers.

True, Snape was not the most beautiful lover she had ever had, but he was not the most unattractive man either. Her fingers gently traced the hideous bruises staining his skin, and she wrapped her arms protectively around him. He was hers now, and they both knew it, just as they knew she was completely and absolutely his. They could not turn back now; even though she was perfectly aware that he would try.

His sleepy yawn drew her attention back to his face. His abyssal eyes stared at her with contentment etched within them, even though his smile could not aptly portray his delight. She ran her hand along his jaw as he murmured, "I hope you know what you have gotten yourself into. Things will not always be perfect; in fact, they rarely will be." She allowed him to dwell for a few moments before she smiled the smile of one truly blissful and said, "If I was after perfection, love, I never would've chosen you, then, would I?" The crinkling at the corner of his eyes was answer enough, and Grimmauld Place rang with the echoes of her idyllic laughter.


End file.
